


Way Down We Go

by unholygrass



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Inaccuracies, Not Beta Read, Seizures, Spencer Reid Whump, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-22 02:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22474657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unholygrass/pseuds/unholygrass
Summary: Spencer Reid's been having migraines for several months and hiding them from the team is going very well-- up until he collapses in the middle of the conference room.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & David Rossi & Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid, Emily Prentiss & Spencer Reid
Comments: 42
Kudos: 572





	Way Down We Go

**Author's Note:**

> whoa i accidentally wrote this on my phone but its super long so i figured i would post it. theres another chapter to this its just not done yet so no its not ending like this-- it shall be continued with lots of fluff and maybe even a sleepover? 
> 
> i fucking love spencer ok i cant help myself
> 
> also warning this has a seizure scene in it just in case that's not your thing.

His head hurts, but that’s nothing new. He’s been living in a haze of cranial pain for a couple months now, riding the waves of migraines as they come and go. Sometimes he’ll get a break for almost a month, and sometimes he’ll have three in a row, crippling him and deplenishing his reserves until he’s nothing but a skeleton running on fumes, sickly and distracted. It’s hell.

He’s given up on his doctors. They’re either overbooked and overworked— too busy to devote any time to his plight, or more concerned with his family’s medical history to look past his genes. He’s been to several, and none of them have been helpful. They’re not willing to listen to him—he tries, but they brush him off.

_Have you considered it might be psychosomatic?_

Yes, he has. His entire life he has, every single second he spent with his mother while she suffered psychotic breaks he was considering the possibility that his own mind might turn on him, and he knows now that this pain is not _that_.

_It’s not._

And as much as he would love to devote his every waking moment to solving his own ailment, he simply does not have the time. He hasn’t had a day off in years, and the BAU seems to only be gaining traction the longer he’s been in it. The crimes only get grislier, more killers crawl out of the framework, more kids go missing, more families torn apart.

He’s content to devote his life to this work-- always has been, and between profiling the most prolific serial killers in the United States and trying to save a couple lives in the meantime, he simply doesn’t have a whole lot of time or energy left to solve the mystery residing within his own skull.

So he carries on as he always does— he goes to work, travels with the team, and tries not to be a burden when the pain overwhelms him. He knows it’s not a permeant solution, but it’s all he has to give right now.

He manages to hide the migraines for a while. Their work is chaos, and while he knows his teammates love him, he also knows that they live in similar situations to him— carrying on the best they can and trying to keep their heads above water as they go. It’s just a fortunate byproduct that they mostly don’t have the energy to be constantly examining him for signs of sickness. It works in his favor for a while. He gets to hide the migraines and pretend that everything is fine, and they don’t notice because they’re just as exhausted as he is.

But things only get worse. It’s an outcome he realistically knew was coming. He knew the migraines probably wouldn’t go away on their own-- that his blatant ignoring of them would only bite him in the ass later.

And he’s right.

He wishes he were wrong sometimes.

After Miami he mostly gives up on keeping his teammates at arm’s length. They’re busy and exhausted, but they’re not blind, and they do happen to be the FBI’s most elite team of profilers. It would be impossible for them not to have noticed his strange behavior yet.

He had known that the ball was going to drop, he just hadn’t predicted that it would be dramatic when it did. 

They’re sitting in the conference room, surrounded by hundreds of files, random crime scene photos, legal pads of notes, stale cups of coffee, and take out boxes. They’re technically between cases, building up a complete profile on one Tomas Williams, a serial killer about to stand trial for the murder of 12 women. It’s one of the quieter parts of their jobs— the days they get to spend on research. Reid’s learned to appreciate the quiet when it comes, even if he prefers the chaos of leaping onto an open case.

He’s especially thankful for the quiet on days like today, when his head is seconds away from exploding from the intense pressure throbbing across his skull and behind his eyes. Half of his vision is obscured by a burry aura that is determined to see him make a fool of himself. His left hand is tingling in strange waves that come and go, and he’s absolutely freezing.

But he’s managing.

Mostly.

He’s fairly certain the others have caught on that he doesn’t feel well. They’re not idiots by any means, and as much as he tries his hardest to appear perfectly fine he suspects he’s failing miserably. There’s only so much he can hide from them considering they spend at least ten hours a day together and they’re also all extremely well versed in the nuances of human behavior— especially _his_ behavior.

But they also respect his privacy, so he pretends to be okay, and for now they let him. He knows that once things get too far out of hand he’ll have to answer their questions, but for now he’s content pretending like everything is fine so long as they will.

It works until it doesn’t.

He reaches for a piece of paper in front of him but wildly misses by about four inches, the scotoma altering his depth perception further than he realized. He corrects himself quickly, but he’s not so naive to think that no one noticed that.

He keeps to himself while the others occasionally mention one piece of research or another, and no one calls him out on it. Their job today in this is to familiarize themselves with the crimes and begin piecing together the full detailed profile. He chose to construct their timeline, and no one seems to mind that he works on his own task rather than brainstorm theirs.

He carries on and hopes the ball doesn’t finally fall.

——

Rossi is supposed to be working out Tomas William’s connections to each of the women he killed and build up a pattern as to how he chose his victims, but instead he finds himself quite enamored with another set of behaviors.

He’d be lying if he ever said that he understands Spencer Reid. He’s certain that no one completely understands Spencer Reid. In fact, he believes it might just be impossible—after all, how could they? It was common knowledge that Reid experienced the world in an incredibly unique way. The world looks awfully different to a certified genius—there had been dozens of times in which Reid had given them just a glimpse into that big ol’ head of his, and every time it happened Rossi was always just as impressed as the last time. Neurodivergence aside, Reid’s perspective would always be unique.

But that doesn’t mean Reid isn’t human. He is just as susceptible to behavior as the rest of them, and the memoriam about inner team profiling aside, he can be pretty easy to read. No, Rossi isn’t so inflated to think that he can keep up with whatever superpowered thoughts are bouncing around in boy genius’s head, but he can read his behavior. He has tells and ticks just like the rest of them, and Rossi had slowly come to learn how to read Reid’s moods.

And now he can tell that Reid is sick. How sick, he isn’t sure, but it’s easy to see that he’s in pain and uncomfortable. He has the same signs that he’d shown on the way home in Miami— a little green and far too pale, squinting even in the dim light and pulse throbbing on his temple. Even if the physiological signs weren’t there, he’s far too spaced out and quiet to be fully himself. He’d been practically silent since entering the room— a rare occasion in itself, and then had since only skimmed through a handful of papers. Rossi knows what a fully functioning Reid looks like— he was a tornado of papers, pages turning quickly while he glanced at the them like lightning, processing information with the speed of a computer— this Reid looks tired and sluggish, like just lifting the files is draining.

It’s concerning him. He cares about the kid, and it’s clear that he’s miserable.

If their beliefs from a couple of months ago are correct, then it’s most likely Reid is having a migraine. He could just be ill, but the squinting and poor depth perception are beginning to add up all over again.

He wishes the damn kid would just use his common sense and go home—but he knows that Reid won’t. He’s seen this kind of thing before—Reid has an inflated sense of duty born from taking care of his mother his entire childhood, and he has a very real inability to abandon his responsibilities. And while no part of their jobs requires them to stay at work until they’re on their deathbeds, it’s undeniable that their work is usually a matter of life and death, and Reid’s contributions are crucial.

Except they’re not on an active case right now, so it’s extra dumb that he was still there.

Rossi’s not surprised that Reid is still working, but that doesn’t mean he likes it.

He catches Aaron’s eye across the table. It’s clear that he is not the only one with these thoughts. Reid’s ailment is beginning to become a concern. He briefly wonders how long Hotch will allow Reid to ignore his own health. Hotch definitely gives Reid much more leeway when it comes to just about everything. But Rossi also knows that Aaron cares a lot about the kid too, and there comes a point where privacy is thrown out the window and good intentions pushed aside. They’re family. They’re allowed to pester each other if it looks like someone’s being an idiot by ignoring their own health.

Reid goes to push aside a file he’s finished with and nearly knocks over his coffee cup in the process. He’s saved only by Morgan whose fast reflexes manage to save Spencer’s notes. Reid apologizes lethargically, words tripping over each other. He rubs fiercely at one eye, pushing a couple papers together as he presses at his face. Reid’s iconic look normally consisted of dark rings around his eyes, but now he looks so tired that they could be mistaken for black eyes.

“Easy there Pretty Boy,” Morgan’s says, lips quirked as he places the mug down where its chances of becoming a disaster are far less. “Too much coffee again?” JJ and Emily both barely glance up, both caught up in their work and writing out comprehensive reports. Rossi understands. Sometimes he gets lost in the paperwork too.

And while Morgan may be content to play along with Reid’s act, Hotch’s passiveness finally runs out, and he speaks up. “Reid, are you alright?”

To his credit, Reid only bullshits them a normal amount. Rossi wonders if he’s finally ready to give up the act of being totally fine.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m fine, I just—” He leans across the table to grab a photo of a shallow grave where the third victim had been discovered. “Um.” He hesitates for a second, obviously swallowing—

“I have a headache.” He says a moment later. Rossi wants to cheer for him just for admitting it to them. “I’m gonna go get some air in a moment, but—” He pushes up from the table and goes to their whiteboard, slumped and a little disheveled. He pins up the photo and reaches for a marker.

Dave glances at Hotch again. He can tell his concern has not been eased at all—the man is watching Reid like a hawk, dark eyes pinned to Reid’s back. Rossi’s just glad he finally admitted to being ill. Maybe they could convince him to go the hell home.

Reid writes on the board as he speaks, laying out some more of their timeline. “The coroner said Jessica Wilson had been dead for about four months, meaning she died around June 15th to June 25th... longer than...tha... wh....”

Rossi looks up again at the lull in speech, and sees Reid blinking at the board, hand stalling as well.

“Reid?” Hotch asks, setting down his file.

And then Spencer is falling sidewise, body collapsing to the floor as his knees give out under him, his eyes rolling up into his head.

“Reid!”

“Spence!”

Rossi’s already leap from his chair before the kid hits the ground, but he’s not fast enough to save him the nasty spill. There’s an audible crack when Reid’s head hits the floor, the marker bouncing across the carpet as it slips from his hand.

“Reid—!“ Dave says, kneeling on the floor and quickly going to take his pulse at his throat. Aaron is on Spencer’s other side, and he uses one hand to gently tap Reid’s face, trying to rouse him or get any kind of reaction.

Reid’s heartbeat is erratic and too fast, but not dangerous yet. His skin is clammy and cold, but thankfully his breathing is normal and not labored. Still— he isn’t responding. “Morgan, call an ambulance.” Rossi snaps, stress making his voice sharp.

JJ is right above them, and Rossi sees her strip out of her sweater and crumple it into a feasible padding. She efficiently tucks it beneath Reid’s head, her lithe fingers lingering on his hairline, brushing it away from his forehead. “What’s going on?” Her voice is strained, and she uses the back of her hand to take his temperature.

“Did he tell any of you anything?” Hotch demands, eyes flashing up from Reid to look at the others.

Emily is pushing the chairs out of the way, thinking of where the EMTs could put the stretcher. “He told me he’s been having really intense headaches—“ She says, “He said he’d been to a couple doctors but that they didn’t find anything.”

“Damn.” Rossi can’t help but curse, turning back to where Reid laid on the floor.

“Why didn’t he say something?” JJ says, a painful lump in her throat.

“He didn’t want anyone to worry.” Emily says, specifically leaving out the part about being made to feel like a baby.

Aaron shakes his head, lowering his eyes for a moment in frustration before turning to Derek who is still speaking with the dispatcher but takes a moment to say, “Bus is five minutes out.”

Thank god they were coming quickly. Rossi doesn’t know what’s wrong with their kid, but he knows that he needs help—needs a hospital.  
  
“Reid!” Hotch tries again, patting Reid’s cheek to no avail. “He’s nonresponsive.” Hotch speaks to the room at large, and Derek relays the information to dispatch over the phone.

“Come on Spence, wake up—“ JJ tries, eyes red but dry. Then, a moment later, “Rossi— his nose—“

Hotch leans behind him for a box of tissues that is sitting on a nearby table, snatching several and bunching them under Reid’s nose in an attempt to catch the heavy stream of blood. As far as nosebleeds go, it’s a nasty one, and Rossi feels his stomach tighten in fear.

_Migraines, fainting, and nosebleeds?_

All he can think is _fuck._

Reid’s eyelids twitch, his hand making a fist. He lets out a wet cough that gets blood down his chin-- some of the blood from the nosebleed had gone down his throat. He manages to open his eyes, but they’re glazed and blank, like he isn’t really seeing. He doesn’t look at any of them, or anything at all—just stares ahead over Hotch’s shoulder, eyes drooping closed with each passing second.

“Reid.” Aaron says, getting more tissues to switch out the drenched ones under his nose. Derek snatches the garbage can against the wall so they can be tossed. The blood’s dripping down his face and into his hair, falling onto the carpet. It’s not clotting, just acts as a faucet.

“Reid, can you hear me?” Hotch’s face is pinched, brows drawn together with unease. He places a solid hand on Spencer’s chest, trying to give him a sensation to cling to. “Spencer.” He says firmly, moving so that he was within his agent’s line of sight.

Reid’s head lolls some, lashes glittering as he fights to keep his eyes open. Rossi can’t even tell if he’s actually conscious or not. Dave takes a moment to loosen Reid’s tie considerably and undoes the top three buttons of his dress shirt. A moment later and Spencer’s eyes flutter shut again.

“This is bad.” JJ says, voice steady but frightened. “Oh god,”

This time Dave knows exactly what JJ is referring to because he feels Reid’s leg twist as his foot begins an unsteady thumping against the floor. A few other parts of his body tighten and spasm at irregular intervals, not enough to jostle him too much, but enough to make Rossi feel ill.

Dave looks quickly to his watch, timing the seizure as it comes, watching Reid carefully as JJ gently keeps him from throwing his head around so his airway is clear.

“It’s only a partial.” Aaron says, mostly to Morgan for the EMTs, and it definitely doesn’t make Rossi feel any better. Partial or not, something was _wrong_. He gets this terrifying thought that suddenly wraps steel around his lungs and squeezes tight.

_Reid could be dying._

“Morgan, go meet the EMTs.” Hotch tells him, and Derek struggles to take his eyes off where Reid lays on the floor for a moment before managing to go, jogging out of the room.

Partial or not, the seizure still shakes him—Rossi looks up at one point and catches Emily staring at how Reid’s long fingers clench and unclench sporadically, arms locked close to his chest. The look in her eye is distant—and Dave remembers vaguely a detail that had come out when Aaron had informed him about Reid’s kidnapping a couple years ago—they’d said he’d had a seizure and gone into cardiac arrest. If the look on Emily’s face is anything to go by, he wouldn’t be surprised if this all dredges up some rather unpleasant memories.

Thankfully the seizure settles down after three minutes into a soft twitching of Spencer’s ankles. It’s incredibly unsettling to see his converse moving involuntarily.

Finally, he stills, and Dave can tell from the commotion in the bullpen that the paramedics are finally here, stretcher in tow and moving briskly.

The fear making his fingers tingle is strong, and he doesn’t release his gentle grip on the side of Spencer’s face until he’s forced to move to get out of the EMT’s way. His hand feels terrible cold after.

He steps back and is careful to stay out of the EMTS way, standing next to Emily while they swarm their boy. Hotch steps back as well but stays in the action, feeding the responders the information they need to know. One doesn’t hesitate to slip an oxygen mask over Reid’s face and start an IV, handing the IV bag to JJ, the other working efficiently on gathering the rest of the vitals.

Within three minutes they’ve already prepped him for transport and are pulling over the stretcher and locking it in place. They move fast and are obviously very skilled— something Rossi can appreciate in a moment like this. He admittedly would probably be furious if they were anything but skilled while dealing with Reid.

They move him onto the stretcher easily— too easily, and Rossi makes a mental note to make sure Spencer is eating something other than muffins and coffee.

Moments later and they’re up and moving, strapping Reid down with their belts and quickly being on their way— Morgan holds the door open for them while they go.

“I’m going to ride in with him.” Aaron says to the rest of the team. “He’ll want his bag— I’ll call with information as soon as I can.”

“We’ll grab his things.” Emily promises, moving with them and watching them load the stretcher into the elevator.

“We’ll catch up.” Rossi says as the doors begin to close, and he gets his last glimpse of Reid, terribly pale, face smeared with blood and strapped onto a stretcher. The unease in his stomach only increases when the doors close and he loses sight of them. He keeps his face neutral—knows the others will be upset and that he should guide them through it—so he takes a moment to take a deep breath before turning to face them so they can get on with it.

______

Seventeen hours later and they’ve all gone from anxious and apprehensive to exhausted and fidgety. All the panicked MRI’s and CAT scans are finished, and they’ve settled Reid into his own private room, drugged to the teeth to fight the series of myoclonic seizures that refuse to leave him alone. They don’t have an answer for them yet—because they still haven’t gotten to the root of the issue, but the nurses assure them all that they will figure it all out.

Aaron hopes they’re right, because right now Reid is _sick,_ and they don’t know why, and every second that they don’t know why makes the knot in his stomach tighten further. That’s why he’s at the hospital at eleven pm, still dressed in his work clothes and unable to get his younger agent out of his mind.

Hotch can’t help but think that Reid looks too skinny. Sure, he isn’t skin and bones, but Aaron still feels like Reid’s wrists are too small— his stomach too flat. Even his face is sharper than it used to be, and Hotch loathes the idea that it could have been from the migraines keeping him unable to eat. He berates himself for having not noticed the weight loss sooner. How had he not noticed Reid slowly deteriorating? He’d noticed—sure, but he hadn’t _done anything._ He tended to take a more hands-off approach with his agents, because he knows that they need their privacy, but this time his passiveness might have costed him the chance to prevent this all.

They still have Spencer completely monitored, covered in EKG leads and IVs, blood pressure cuff and pulse oximeter, oxygen cannula resting under his nose. The soft blue and crisp whites of the gown and blankets make him look gray and too pale, too lifeless. There’s still blood crusted inside and under his nose, a few stray speckles on his collarbones.

Realistically Hotch knows it’s from the heavy dose of lorazepam, but it’s still disheartening to see Spencer so still. He’s nestled in a nest of blankets and sheets that the nurses and JJ had bundled around him, tucking them under his tubes and wires and putting extra layers on his feet. Garcia had brought two blankets from her apartment—one is just a picture of a massive wolf’s head—Hotch recognizes it as the one Reid always claims when they visit Garcia’s apartment—and the other is a hideous green with koi fish printed across it. They’re both fluffy and juxtaposed to the stiff sheets and threadbare cotton blankets the hospital is full of, and she’s tucked them thoroughly around their boy. Reid’s moved some in his sleep, twisting about and settling fully into the thin hospital mattress, body desperately in need of rest.

The sleep is better than the pain, Hotch remembers. He’s glad Reid can finally sleep if nothing else. The doctors had said earlier that when he’d briefly been conscious that the pain had still been intense, and that the migraine still probably had several days left before it left him be once more. If the anticonvulsants kept him sleepy, then so be it.

He turns and grabs a chair from the hallway, carrying it into Reid’s room and setting it against the wall by the window. Emily’s passed out in the room’s only recliner, curled into a ball with her legs tucked against her stomach and head resting on her chin. He knows Morgan is somewhere in the hospital too—just not here. Probably walking around outside to stretch.

He pulls out his phone and settles back into the chair, loosening his tie and getting comfortable. He hadn’t come with the intention to stay— but now that he’s there he knows he won’t be leaving. He’d keep Morgan and Emily company for a while. Jack was already asleep anyway and he can’t quite grasp the ability to walk out on their boy right now.

——-

When Reid’s finally awake he’s too drugged to say much. He watches them silently, eyes half closed and pupils blown out. He looks beaten— exhausted and weary— like a soldier who’s been defeated in battle. The lack of calories has made his face even sharper, his collarbones more prominent. His hair is wild— even short as it is, it refuses to be tamed, poking up in the back and sticking to his forehead.

Emily misses his long hair— the short hair is cute, but it looks like something is missing. It’s startling to see sometimes. She spends a lot of the time she’s in the hospital visiting pondering the wonder that is Dr. Reid.

He seems very content to lie bundled in the extra blankets Emily had spread over him and silently watch them talk to each other— he’s awfully quiet, which is a little strange. She puts it to the meds— he’s still on a cocktail of sedatives and anticonvulsants, but she wishes he’d say something. The dazed and faraway look makes her stomach clench sometimes— that wasn’t how he was supposed to be. Reid was nothing but incredibly sharp and observant, and seeing him acting in such opposition to his normal self is disheartening. She was so used to the Reid that always had something to tell her— the Reid that knew _something_ about _everything and_ wasn’t hesitant to share that knowledge with them. 

But now he’s so muted— washed out in every way. The glazed look in his eyes reminds her of when he’d been on the floor in the BAU room, and it’s something she’s eager never to see again.

Emily decides right that moment to never take their boy for granted again— because now that she was faced with the situation of not getting Reid’s weird ticks and facts and infodumping— she misses it terribly. 

And apparently, she’s not the only one to be experiencing this, because a moment later Hotch speaks up. “Reid?” Hotch asks, elbows on his knees. He’s still dressed in the shirt from yesterday— Emily hadn’t realized he’d stayed all night. She’d thought Morgan had been here alone. 

Reid turns his head in Hotch’s general direction, sluggishly making eye contact with him but not saying anything. 

“Are you feeling okay?” 

Reid nods just a bit, head moving against the pillow. His eyes drift away, landing on some invisible speck in the air. He wiggles on the mattress a little, settling further into the blankets tucked around him and closing his eyes. 

“He’s probably just exhausted.” Morgan says, eyes glued on the bed. 

“I’ve never seen him so quiet.” Emily says, “I know it’s probably just the drugs but...” 

Hotch watches Reid breathe steadily for a couple moments before pushing himself up out of his chair and turning to them. “I’m going to go speak to a nurse,” And then he’s gone, on a mission to get some more information.

——

It turns out Emily is right— it’s just the drugs, and the nurses assure them all that it’s perfectly normal for him to be so out of it. They tell them they’re planning on lightening the dosage the next day and that the rest was the best way for his body to regain the strength it needed, and that Reid’s doctor also had finally heard back from the different neurologists he’d corroborated with and planned to speak with Hotch when he started his shift that night.

It’s not really an answer, but it’s enough to stop Morgan’s pacing, so Emily takes the victory.

So, they try not to worry, and instead entertain themselves while Reid rests. Hotch goes home eventually, and Emily and Morgan watch four episodes of Game of Thrones that they’re not interested in at all, but they pass some time and that was really the only goal.

When JJ shows up they start a game of poker. It goes well—between JJ and Emily they manage to keep Morgan from winning once. They catch up on a handful of cases and try not to think of what will happen when they’re eventually called away on a case. Sure, Garcia would still be here with Reid, but somehow that’s still not enough to make Emily feel any better about it.

And then there’s the scarier question that she knows is lingering in the back of everyone’s minds—would Reid get to come back to work? Would the seizures disqualify him from his position? Would they force him out of the BAU? She makes a note to ask Hotch what his plan is the next time she sees him—she knows he has to have one—or at least some idea of what was to come in Reid’s future on the team.

She can’t possibly imagine doing their work without him. He’d been there since the very beginning—she’d hasn’t worked a single case without him yet. She’s watched him grow from a rather hesitant 24-year-old to a confident and accomplished agent. He is such a vital part of their dynamic—of their _family—_ that she can’t imagine him not being there on the jet, in the police precincts, or at their briefings and lunches and—

She glances to the bed where Reid’s loosely laid on his side, one hand tucked under his head and IV line tangled with the EKG leads. Earlier JJ had managed to get some dry shampoo into his hair with his slightly disgruntled permission. He looks better surrounded by Garcia’s blankets and without the oxygen cannula—looks healthier.

She doesn’t want to do this without him. He’s one of her best friends—a part of what made their work bearable on the worst days was the fact that she’s surrounded by people who she genuinely loves—and without him there…

She tries not to think about it.

**Author's Note:**

> please review!


End file.
